


The Boscombe Valley Mystery (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [101]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Eloping, England (Country), F/M, Forced Marriage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 20:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11043624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A strange case, concerning a forced marriage that looks set to be scuppered. The pleasant Dorsetshire countryside is the backdrop to what would be the dynamic duo's first, albeit distant encounter with the forces of Professor James Moriarty.





	The Boscombe Valley Mystery (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



Foreword: Readers will remember my original rendition of this case as a rare failure on behalf of my brilliant friend, at least in that events prior to his involvement in the case rendered it unsolvable. In fact it was a success, for reasons that could not be made clear at the time. More ominously, it was our first, albeit distant brush with the man who would utterly wreck my life, Professor James Moriarty.

+~+~+

It is strange, but the year of 'Eighty-Eight was actually the first full Christmas that Sherlock and I had spent together in Baker Street. Every year prior, one or both of us had quitted the place for a time, I to stay with Sammy, or Sherlock reluctantly to his parents' house, from which ordeal he invariably returned swearing never to put himself through _that_ again. However, a few days before this particular Christmas Day I had become an uncle, with young Johnson Watson entering the world a full month early; he clearly he did not get his time-keeping from his moose of a father! Even though I was invited, I did not want to deprive the happy couple of time with their newborn baby. Though I may or may not have shed a tear about my name ('Johnson' was, I might add, the maiden name of Jessica's mother) being continued for a new generation.

Thankfully, Sherlock had by this time recovered from his recent brush with death and the subsequent depression of his involvement with the Ripper case. He was still incredibly 'clingy' however, and although he had to accept that I was compelled to earn a crust by seeing to my patients, he did not like me to go out without him at other times. In bed one cold December night, he told me that he did not like Christmas much, and flatly refused to help decorate the tree that I purchased, so it served him right that I managed to find a tan-coated angel with blue eyes to go at the top, where he could not reach. He had pouted at me for that, but there was no force in it. It was a happy time.

We celebrated the arrival of 'Eighty-Nine together, and I remember wondering what cases it would bring for him to solve. I fervently hoped that none would be of the sort he had had of late. I could not know that, over the next two and a half years, a shadow would slowly cast itself across both our lives, and eventually all but destroy them.

+~+~+

London in winter is not for the faint-hearted, and the New Year arrived with a vicious snowstorm that all but paralyzed the greatest city in the world for a few days. The surgery was forced to close, the road past its door resembling parts of Siberia, though I had been asked by telegram to go out to a number of clients, all of whom I somehow managed to reach. And of course, I had my own human heater to look forward to every time I returned to Baker Street of a evening – I was sure that Sherlock ran several degrees hotter than standard human, for whatever reason - which considerably improved my mood that cold season.

It was early one Wednesday morning, whilst the surgery itself was still closed, when the inaptly named Mr. Salerio Merriweather called in on us. Not just because the weather was far from merry, but neither was the man himself. He was about forty years of age, corpulent, balding and he reeked of cologne so much that I was afraid letting him near the fire might end in him going up in flames. Though his brusque and abrupt manner soon had me considering that such an event would, in the circumstances, not have been unwelcome. Maybe a slight push....

Sherlock was shaking his head at me, damn him! I pouted.

“I demand that you come down to Dorsetshire with me at once!” our malodorous visitor almost shrieked. “I have been most horribly betrayed and misused, and you are the man to put things to rights!”

If he was trying to persuade Sherlock to take on his case, he was not exactly going the right way about it. My friend caught my disapproving look, and I bit back a chuckle.

“My services are ever in demand”, Sherlock said airily. “Perhaps it might suit if you explained exactly who you are and what you require, sir, before I cross several counties on your behalf?”

Our visitor drew himself up to his full height (which was less than either of us), and stared imperiously at us both.

“I, sirs, am Mr. Salerio Hayland Merriweather!”

Clearly that announcement was meant to incite awe and acknowledgement, rather than the puzzled silence that it actually elicited. That in turn seemed to irritate our unwanted guest even more. He sat down heavily in the chair without actually being invited, and frowned at us as if we had displeased him in some way. My opinion of him contrived to fall even further.

“I have been most cruelly abused, gentlemen, and matters must be corrected at once. My wife has left me!”

“But you are not married”, Sherlock observed, and I belatedly noticed the lack of a wedding-ring. Our guest snorted.

“I arranged my wedding through the Disparagement Society – they deal with women who are wealthy but unable to take control of their own money – and purchased my future wife for… well, it was a considerable sum. And now she has disappeared. You must find her!”

I snorted in disdain at the idea of actually buying someone in this day and age. The slave-trade had been consigned to the history books two decades before my birth, and the British Empire was doing sterling work eradicating it from other, less enlightened parts of the world. Sherlock stood and frowned at the man for some time before answering.

“Very well.”

I stared at him in shock. What on earth...?

“Please tell us the facts of this case”, my friend went on, seemingly unaware of my reaction.

I was so shocked by his accepting the case of this obnoxious fellow – visitors less rude than this had been told to leave in no uncertain terms, and in more than one case forcibly removed – that I barely managed to make any notes. Which was unfortunate, as our unwelcome guest spoke far too quickly.

“The girl – Heather something or other – was to be brought down to my house, Bosbury Manor, yesterday. She was to travel on the evening train from Waterloo to Templecombe, and then change to the Somerset & Dorset line down to Tally-Ho! Junction. The estate runs its own private railway from there down the Boscombe Valley to the town of Bosbury.”

“I see”, Sherlock said politely. “Pray continue.”

“A member of the Society was of course to accompany her”, our unwelcome guest snorted, “but once they reached the junction, disaster! There was an altercation on the platform for some reason, and her companion ended up being struck and knocked out by another passenger. Lord alone knows why! By the time that the fool fellow had recovered his wits, the Bosbury train was pulling out of the station with the lady on it.”

“Was he certain that the lady was on the train?” Sherlock put in.

“She had not alighted; the guard told him.”

“Please describe this railway to me.”

“It connects with the Somerset & Dorset main line at Tally-Ho! Junction, which is actually in the small town of Boshampton. The train calls at Boscombe Valley Halt, and then Marton Manor Halt, where my carriage was waiting to meet her. The next and final stop is the town of Bosbury.”

“So it is possible that she could have alighted at Boscombe Valley Halt, then?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“I checked with the stationmaster there, and only one person alighted from that train that evening”, our guest said crossly. “A gentleman. The train did not stop for a signal or anything, either. Once I received the hasty telegram that her useless companion had dispatched from the telegraph office in Boshampton, I ordered the train to be held at Bosbury, and had it thoroughly searched. There was no sign of her! She has vanished into thin air, Mr. Holmes, vanished! And I demand your immediate attention to this most important matter.”

“I shall definitely visit you in Dorsetshire on Friday”, Sherlock said. Noting the man’s obvious outrage at the delay, he smoothly continued. “I am finishing up a matter for the government today and tomorrow. I am to presume that you would not request me to tell Her Majesty that _she_ should wait?”

Because I was nearly thirty-seven years old, I did not point a finger at our visitor and yell 'Hah!' at the top of my voice. And yes, I was strongly tempted, despite the warning look that some mind-reading wiseacre shot across at me. Mr. Merriweather reddened.

“I shall expect you first thing”, he insisted.

“That will not happen”, Sherlock said. He continued before our guest could bluster again. “The purpose of the visit will of course to be to retrace the steps of the lady’s journey. For that, I must obviously travel at the same time as the train she herself took. The doctor and I shall spend some days in the area investigating this matter, and we shall of course inform you of any developments. We shall find our own lodgings, as I keep somewhat irregular hours and would not wish to incommode your staff.”

Thank heaven for that at least, I thought.

+~+~+

After what seemed like an eternity, our unwelcome guest left, and I opened the window to help remove the stench of his cologne. I was still frankly astonished that Sherlock had taken the case of this obnoxious excuse for a human being, but on reflection I supposed that there had to be a reason behind his decision.

“I did not know that you had a case with the government?” I asked curiously.

“I do not”, he said. “But the Disparagement Society is something that I have had my eye on for some little time, and this seems an excellent chance to pursue further inquiries into it.”

“What is it about?” I asked.

“Bacchus became curious, and tried to track down the real owners”, he told me. “Even he gave up when it became one false front after another. It is not just that something so horribly outdated as that set of beliefs should be allowed in our modern city, but my instincts tell me that this is worth investigating.”

“So that is why you are looking into that awful man’s case”, I smiled. “I thought that there had to be a reason.”

“Always the man with faith in me, doctor”, he smiled. “Let us hope I can justify it, and find the lost lady before the Society, or worse, the pungent and strident Mr. Salerio Hayland Merriweather catches up with her.”

+~+~+

Sherlock spent much of the next day with his brother Bacchus, finding out what more he could about the Disparagement Society. The lounge-lizard told him he was confident that the government would soon be able to close down its operations, as the Society played on a legal loophole that was about to be closed by a bill currently going through parliament, one which had the support of both the major parties. Sherlock also discovered that the lady in question was one Miss Heather Rosewood, the daughter and sole heiress to a considerable fortune from her late father, who had been in the tea trade and had owned a considerable estate in the counties of Durham and Westmorland. Her uncle, a Mr. Jacob Burns, had been given control of the estate until she reached twenty-one in a year and a half's time, and had arranged her marriage to Mr. Merriweather for a considerable sum, despite the prospective husband being over double the lady's tender age.

“There is something else of interest”, Sherlock said, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Miss Rosewood was said to be enamoured of a young buck by the name of Harry Percy - a good name for a Northumbrian - and those affections were said to have been returned, but as he had not a bean to his name, her ‘guardian’ went for the moneyed option.”

I could hear the quotation marks. I smiled.

“The point is”, Sherlock continued, “that Mr. Percy has recently decamped to the town of Wareham, in the same county as his vanished lady and barely twenty miles or a short train ride from the valley. I am sure that either or both the Society and her uncle are keeping a close eye on him, just in case.”

“A lady vanishes”, I said softly. “I went to the library and obtained the timetables for you, as you asked.”

“Thank you”, he smiled. “And tomorrow we must to Waterloo, and points west. Oh to be young and in love!”

I laughed, though I remembered that my thirty-seventh birthday was approaching fast – too fast - and I was getting ever further from being 'young'. Then again, at least Sherlock would turn thirty-five this year.

It was just not fair that he was always those two and a half years behind me!

+~+~+

The following afternoon saw the two of us standing on the platform of a little halt in the middle of the Dorsetshire countryside, the sharp January wind trying to blow straight through us. The village of Templecombe had two stations; the one we had recently alighted at on the London to Exeter main line of the London & South Western Railway Company, and our much smaller halt on the Somerset & Dorset Joint Railway, which connected Bournemouth to Bath and other Somersetshire towns (I thought it a pity that railway companies were always so hostile to each other, and they had not built a combined station which would have been less than half a mile from both). It was bitingly cold, and I was relieved when after only a few minutes, a smartly-kept train in the blue livery of the S&D rumbled in and pulled to a stop.

“Sorry, John”, my friend said with a grin. “That is the northbound train. We are heading south, towards Bournemouth.”

Fortunately only a few moments later another train rattled in from the north, and we boarded just as the other train set off.

“This section is single-line only”, I observed. 

“The railway was formed by a merger of two separate companies”, Sherlock said. “I shall be looking to examine the layout of the junction where Miss Rosewood was parted from her guide for the journey; I would have asked Mr. Merriweather, but like you, I did not wish to prolong his visit any more than was necessary. Fortunately we have some little time there, as the Bosbury branch train will wait for the next northbound train as well as our own.”

It was about twenty-five minutes later that we reached the charmingly-named Tally-Ho! Junction which, as Mr. Merriweather had said, served the fair-sized village of Boshampton. Sherlock explained to me that his research had confirmed the Merriweathers did indeed own most of the land around here, and that the original railway builders had wanted to build through Bosbury and intersect with the London to Exeter line at Gillingham before continuinh north-west, but that our client’s late father had not wanted a main line through his home town, so a branch had been built instead. I wondered if the townsfolk would come to regret such a move; the map of England had been changed in so many places by the advent of the railway, towns that had missed out often losing jobs and population to those that the railway had reached first.

Tally-Ho! Junction was a large station for just a village, consisting of two platforms as well as a goods yard. The exit to Boshampton was through the station building on platforms one and two, platform one being a bay siding currently full of trucks. There was a footbridge connecting it to the island platforms three and four, for northbound and southbound mainline trains respectively, and on across the tracks to the other side of the village. Sherlock asked around, and we were fortunate to find one of the porters who had been there during the fracas, an elderly but affable grey-haired fellow.

“Proper lady, she was”, he said with a smile. “Not like the runt she had with her; he fair crept me out. Never trust a man who perfumes his hair, that's what my wife says. He'd gotten the lady onto the train, then turned to get his bag – apparently I weren't good enough to handle it for him, would you believe? - and he nearly knocked over this young fellow who happened to be walking by. The fellow grabbed onto him and demanded an apology, but when the old guy wouldn't give him one, he did.”

“Did what?” Sherlock asked.

“Gave him one!” the porter grinned. “Right in the kisser! Knocked him clean out, too. Good left hook for a doctor.

“How do you know that he was a doctor?” I asked.

“Had a medical bag, like the one you're carrying”, the porter said, gesturing to my own bag. “He tried to bring him round with some sort of smelling-salts, but by then her train was long gone. It was a right laugh; the old chap tried to run after it, then he screamed that we would have to get the train back somehow – hah! - and finally he demanded to know where the nearest telegraph office was.”

“And the man who hit him?” Sherlock asked.

“Not a local”, the porter said firmly. “Twenties, not more than thirty. Average height, dark hair - maybe brown, not black - and hadn't shaved. His ticket was from Wareham, I remember. Fellow was calm, even though he'd got so mad at being bumped.”

Sherlock thanked him, and a coin changed hands. I waited until the porter had gone before speaking.

“Mr. Percy?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“The description I was given of him is that he is light blond and six foot two”, he said. “He could dye his hair, but I doubt that even a master of disguise could suddenly lose six inches in height, besides which one would have expected that observant porter to have spotted some sort of reaction from the lady. I see that the northbound train is approaching. We had better board our own train, if we are to follow Miss Rosewood’s movements exactly.”

We clambered into the first-class coach, and were sat down just as the other train pulled in alongside us. We had to wait a few minutes for any connecting passengers to cross the footbridge, and our train and the two others left almost together, though our line quickly diverged and dropped away, curving back to pass beneath the main line through the arches of a handsome viaduct.

After about five minutes travel we stopped at Boscombe Valley Halt, which served the villages of Bosham St. Peter and Bosham All Saints. Sherlock and I watched the platform, and only one person got off there, a lady with a basket. Then we crossed the river and continued to Marton Manor Halt, which lay in the valley between Marton village on one side and the manor house on the other. The village was small and had only one inn, the Fighting Cocks. They did not normally offer rooms during winter, but as I had expected, were willing to accommodate us. Ironically our rooms both had a view across the valley to the manor house, an ominous reminder of our client.

“I shall have to pay a courtesy visit tonight, to let him know that we have come”, Sherlock sighed. “You can take the time to pump the locals for knowledge of the man, and see if they know anything about the disappearance of the lady.”

I was thankful that I was to be spared at least one encounter with Mr. Merriweather, and smiled at my friend in gratitude.

+~+~+

There was a hot breakfast waiting for us the next morning, which was a most welcome sight. Less welcome was the news that the landlord brought to the small dining-room with it.

“His nobs is downstairs, demanding to see you”, he said, his face clearly indicating that he too was not overly fond of our client. “I told him that _gentlemen_ do not get disturbed at this time of a morning unless the place is on fire, so he is champing at the bit.”

And you enjoyed telling him that, I thought but did not say. Though I may have let slip a slight smile.

We finished our breakfast and made ourselves presentable – I noted that neither of us was exactly hurrying – before making our way downstairs to meet our client who, predictably, was less than happy at having been kept waiting.

“You must act at once!” he insisted before we had even had time to sit down. “The Society has this morning sent me a most alarming telegram this morning, to the effect that their agent monitoring that young buck Percy says he has purchased a ticket for Bournemouth! He could be here in barely an hour!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Merriweather”, Sherlock said placidly. “If the doctor and I hire a carriage, we can easily intercept the man at Blandford Forum. Even if he knows the whereabouts of your 'intended', I very much doubt that he would be foolish enough to lead a pursuer straight to the lady. My research has shown that he is a smart young man, and he would be expecting to be followed.”

The man pouted, but I could see that Sherlock’s point had struck home.

“Though I should caution you against hoping to recover the lady”, Sherlock went on. “I rather think that Mr. Harry Percy is a most desperate character. I do not know what lengths he would go to in order to frustrate your pursuit.”

“You think that he might harm the lady rather than hand her over?” he asked doubtfully.

“Or worse”, Sherlock said ominously. “I have initiated a certain course of inquiry which, if it yields a result, may have information for you tomorrow. In the meantime, the doctor and I must away if we are to intercept the young fellow.”

He looked annoyed that he would be unable to badger us any further, but he was clearly torn between that and our failing to intercept his rival, and he eventually nodded, departing with a grunt.

“I have had less pleasant clients”, Sherlock said after he had gone. “Few, though.”

I thought of the awful Huffington-Brands, now living in a 'hovel' in Keighley whilst their despised rival Mr. Stephenson had inherited their cousin's castle, and smiled. 

+~+~+

Sherlock took the reins of our hired carriage, and I soon realized that we were heading north, not south towards Blandford. We skirted Boshampton on its northern side, and not long afterwards my friend turned us into the station yard of Kilminster, the stop just north of Tally-Ho! Junction. 

“I am expecting to meet a passenger off the Bournemouth train”, he said. “Indeed, by the white smoke that I can see approaching, we are only just in time. For once, the Somerset & Dorset is not living down to its nickname of 'the Slow & Dirty'!”

I held back my curiosity, and soon the train pulled into the station. Six people came through the station building, but Sherlock evinced no interest in any of them. Then a seventh appeared, a tall flaxen-haired young fellow pushing a bicycle. Sherlock leapt down and went to meet him. 

“Greetings”, he beamed. “I believe that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Harry Percy?”

The young man looked at him warily. He was a few inches taller than Sherlock and muscular for his age, though I was certain that in any fight there would be only one winner. He nodded, but did not speak.

“Then perhaps we may offer you a lift to your destination”, Sherlock said. “And do not look so worried. If I had been inclined to turn you over to Mr. Merriweather, I would have done so by now.”

The man silently got into the back of our cart along with his bicycle, and Sherlock clicked the reins.

+~+~+

The young man spoke only to give directions, as we passed through some beautiful Dorsetshire countryside. About ten minutes later we drew up outside a small cottage that was set a little apart from the nearby village of Henley St. Alban. Mr. Percy looked uncertainly at us both.

“Sirs”, he began.

“You have twenty minutes”, Sherlock said quietly. “The next northbound train is the one which will connect at Templecombe with the Plymouth boat train. In light of present circumstances, I shall presume that you would not wish to delay.”

He nodded, and got down from the cart, making his way up the path to the cottage.

“What on earth is going on?” I blurted out. He smiled at my confusion. 

“We have sufficient time for me to elucidate you”, he said, “although I will understand if the deceit arising from this matter is more than an English doctor feels up to handling…..”

“Sherlock!” 

It was not a whine, whatever some blue-eyed genius said about it later. He chuckled at my frustration, and I poked him in my annoyance. He gave me a Sammy-esque kicked puppy look, and I sighed in resignation.

“Very well”, he said. “Several people were in on this ramp, which has been exceptionally well-planned. I am only thankful that Mr. Percy shows no inclination towards a criminal lifestyle, or he might be keeping me rather busy!”

“He knows that Miss Rosewood will be guarded by a Society member all the way from her home in County Durham to Dorsetshire, so he plans accordingly. I would wager that one of his friends, selected for his dissimilarity to the man himself, was the one who engineered the _contretemps_ at Tally-Ho! Junction.”

“Clever”, I muttered, looking towards the cottage. I hoped that Mr. Percy would be quick, and not be tempted to start anything whilst we were waiting.

“Mr. Percy's accomplice strikes the guardian down”, Sherlock said, “although it is not smelling salts that he holds under his nose but something to keep him unconscious until the train has left. Once this happens, he allows his victim to come to, and of course the first thing that he sees is the train pulling away into the distance.

“With the lady on it”, I smiled.

“No.”

“What?” I asked, now totally confused.

“You will remember from the layout of the junction station that the northbound train came through on platform three, whilst the branch train was on the next track, at platform two”, he explained. “Once her guardian is out for the count, the lady reaches across, opens the door to the carriage in the next train, opens her own door and simply steps across. She is greeted at the next station, Kilminster, by Mr. Percy, who has arranged the whole thing.”

“Wait a minute”, I objected, “I thought you said that he was being watched.”

“Mr. Percy turned that to his advantage”, Sherlock said. “At a time when it would be expected, a second confederate, this time selected for his similarity to our dashing rescuer of distressed damsels, leaves the lodging-house in Warehamdressed in his friend's clothes. Once the pursuit has been drawn away, it is easy for Mr. Percy to do the same journey, whilst his friend probably has a grand day out in Bournemouth, leading his pursuers a merry dance.”

I frowned. 

“Mr. Merriweather”, I said heavily. To my surprise, Sherlock chuckled.

“That is where the deceit comes in”, he said. He passed me a folded sheet of paper, and I read its contents.

Lord, but the man was good!

+~+~+

“Well?”

I decided I had been wrong. It was possibly to dislike the pug-faced obnoxious little creep of a man even more. Sherlock shook his head.

“It is bad news”, he said gravely. “But it could have been worse.”

That clearly unsettled the man.

“How?” he demanded. 

“Miss Heather Rosewood died last week”, Sherlock said.

Mr. Merriweather snorted his disbelief.

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “Why, the Society assured me that she reached the junction quite safely!”

“That”, Sherlock said heavily, “was _not_ Miss Heather Rosewood. I do not even know the lady’s identity, except to say she was a friend of your intended bride.”

“But damnation, healthy young women don’t just go and die!” the man snapped.

“Suicide”, Sherlock muttered, so quietly I barely heard him. Clearly our client did, because his face went deathly white.

“You are in jest!”

“I so wish that I was”, Sherlock said, handing him over an official-looking piece of paper. “That is the death certificate. I checked to make sure, but it is quite genuine. In the circumstances, you would not of course wish me to pursue this matter any further.”

“Circumstances?” The man looked confused. Sherlock looked away, apparently embarrassed.

“If this were to become public knowledge, sir”, he said carefully, “it might be said by certain, ahem, _ignorant_ persons that the situation regarding her prospective marriage caused this lady to take her own life. Of course, I am sure that _most_ people would not be so coarse or uncouth, but alas, the newspapers today…. well, they do tend to cater to the lowest common denominator. Your reputation could be seriously damaged.”

Mr. Merriweather nodded frantically.

“Yes”, he said. “Yes, I see that. Er, the young buck?”

“I understand that Mr. Harry Percy has decided to quit England for a life in the United States”, Sherlock said. “He has nothing to keep him here any more.”

“No. No, indeed. Well, thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sure you did your best. Yes, thank you.”

Sherlock bowed us out, and we made a silent getaway to the local halt, where we boarded the little valley train. Two stops later, we were back at Tally-Ho! Junction, the scene of the ‘crime’. I noted that my friend whispered something to the local train’s guard which made the old man’s face break out in a smile, and before we were out he was already talking excitedly with the driver and fireman, before rushing off into the station building.

“I hope that those two young people are happy together”, I said, as we waited for our own train to Templecombe and the connection to London.

“Happiness cannot be guaranteed”, Sherlock said. “But they love each other, and that is a start.”

Indeed, I thought. Love.

+~+~+

Note: I am going to take this opportunity to clarify a matter that several of my readers have asked me about. Mr. James Moriarty had a whole set of qualifications, which he shamelessly abused. He had trained to be a doctor abroad, presumably somewhere that the bar for qualifications was considerably lower than here. Technically he should therefore have been called 'Doctor Moriarty', but it was common practice to refer to him as 'Professor', a title to which he ironically had far less entitlement as he merely ran a correspondence college, and had no literary or educational qualifications. I have gone along with the latter appellation only to prevent myself thinking of him as a member of my own profession, whose maxim of 'first do no harm' he so signally failed to obey.

+~+~+

It was just my luck that, even though I was on a short break, I managed to run into our next case and drag it to Sherlock's attention.


End file.
